Death Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break upon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they biting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man. Everything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes. To-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after? The following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of shell-holes, we arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row; and every gun was being worked as hard as possible. A bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we were halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was massed and belching forth its concentrated fury. As darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the question; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground silenced by wonder and bewilderment. What was happening over yonder where those shells were dropping? What was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4·9-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a stupendous effort to pound some part of the German line into confusion. Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look upon this sight! This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons. They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths. The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their homes, if those guns fail. What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in England?